Beautiful Burn (The Maddox Brothers, #4)(20)

Maricela took my chin between her fingers. “Ni?a, no more of this. The Ellison who is destructive and full of anger … go on. Kill her. But you can live.”

I tried to look away, but she wouldn’t let me.

“If you want to prove that you’re not that person, then you have to stop being that person. Let her go. Look at you. She’s not making you happy.”

I blinked, and then nodded slowly. Maricela always knew what to say when I was upset, but she’d never raised her voice at me before. She was fighting for me. I couldn’t let her fight alone. “You’re right. She has to go.”

Maricela helped me to my feet.

I looked at my closet again. It was full of plaid flannels, hoodies, and ripped jeans, revealing shirts, and concert tees. “The interview is in an hour. I’m going to show up looking like I just left a drug deal.”

Maricela stood behind me, touched my shoulders, and whispered into my ear, “She’s dead. Go find a new Ellison.”

“What if I don’t know where to start?”

“You already have.” She kissed my cheek and left the room.

I stared at the clothes for a bit longer, and then slammed the doors and ran down the hall to Finley’s room, pulling open her closet with the hope she hadn’t taken everything fantastic to her Manhattan apartment. Clanging through her hangers, I found a pair of black leather skinnies and a burgundy sweater. With a tall pair of black boots, a bit of makeup, and after raking a brush through my waves, I snarled at my appearance in the mirror. I rifled through Finley’s hair products, sprayed some frizz control on my hair, and then brushed it through. I looked at my reflection again and sighed. I was so used to dressing like I didn’t care, anything that took more effort seemed like I was trying too hard.

“You look nice, Miss Ellison,” Maricela said from the doorway. “Shall I collect your laundry?”

“Thank you. But I don’t think you’re supposed to. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

Maricela’s expression fell, and then she nodded, knowing I was right. “I’ll teach you when you’re ready.” She waved once before turning for the hall. “José is sure Mr. Edson forgot to mention that you’re to be driven to any job interviews.”

A wide grin crept across my face. “Really?”

“Good luck, Miss.”

“Maricela?”

She turned.

“I don’t know if they’ve asked you to report on what I’m doing, but I’d prefer you not tell them about the interview.”

Maricela had been with our family since I was in grade school, and she looked at me with maternal love in her eyes. “I just want you to get better, Miss Ellie.”

“I know. I’m trying.”

She closed the door, and I turned to look in the mirror, deciding to pull my hair into a high, smooth bun. Mr. Wick was going to hire me, even if he didn’t know it yet.



José glanced into the rearview mirror of the Audi. “You look nice, Miss Ellison.”

“Thank you,” I responded, turning to look out the window at the buildings passing by.

Our home was hidden away south of Highway 66, and the magazine was almost due north. It took José just over ten minutes to reach the highway, and he turned south, driving the opposite way from everyone else on their way to their jobs, and the tourists on their way to the mountain base. The sand trucks were out in full force, scraping a path toward Estes Park. We passed resorts and inns, a river and a cemetery … so many things I’d never paid attention to because they weren’t bars or restaurants without a dress code.

José turned down Mills Drive, and my heart began to race. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I had a feeling I was about to humiliate myself. We passed several buildings, all brown and filled with matching vehicles. Farther down from the rest, sat a small building with two garages and several emergency trucks parked along a circle drive. I sat up when I saw the sign.

INTERAGENCY CENTER

ROCKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK

I sat up, touching the glass with my fingertips. I wasn’t sure if their crew stuck around throughout the year, but if I was going to be down the street for forty hours a week, I hoped not.

Next door to the fire station was a large RV park, and a quarter-mile of trailers dotted the landscape. Across the street from the station and the park was a new steel building. A driveway curved in front of the entrance, also continuing back toward another, smaller steel building that might have served as a garage, or storage building, or possibly both. The MountainEar office was small, a non-descript steel structure, newly finished on the outskirts of town.

I waved goodbye as José pulled away. He’d already promised to return in an hour. I stood on the sidewalk, inadequately dressed for the plummeting temperature. The clouds hung low over the peaks, and the snow had already spotted my hair like feathers, disappearing on contact.

A dually truck and gooseneck trailer barreled down the road toward the RV Park, all ten tires sloshing against the wet asphalt. I took a quick step back before a wave of water and ice soaked me from bun to boot heel. I walked toward the main building, passing the sign that read: MOUNTAINEAR MAGAZINE. My ankles wobbled with each step, feeling less confident and more ridiculous the closer I came to the front door. My hand hesitated to reach for the door handle, but I opened it, sighing in relief when the heat warmed my cheeks.